


Wrath

by thedevilchicken



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Daenerys Made Them Do It, Deepthroating, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Jealousy, M/M, Punishment, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Something Made Them Do It, victim is aroused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-12 23:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21484333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: He doesn't want to do it, but he'll do anything for her.(aka Jorah lives, Jon is caught attempting to stab Daenerys, and Daenerys has Jorah punish him...)
Relationships: Implied Jorah Mormont/Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Jorah Mormont/Jon Snow
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47
Collections: Naughty List 2019





	Wrath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Naemi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naemi/gifts).

He doesn't want to do it, but he'll do anything for her. 

The long and short of it is Jon Snow is a traitor, the Queen knows it, and he has to be punished. The reason that can't be hanging or his head on a fucking pike... well, that's political; Queen Daenerys is new to Westeros, relatively speaking, and if it comes out that her most stauch supporter tried to gut her, that says fuck all for her people's loyalty in general. So, she told Jorah to punish him in private. She told Jorah to punish him _thoroughly_. And as Jorah's not a Bolton flying the flayed man and he's got no taste for brands or tongs or paddles, he knew what he had to do. He knows what he has to do now. 

During the day, Snow's with their queen, and Jorah watches sharply, ever alert in case he tries again. Every now and then, Jorah in his white cloak passes by and swats Snow's arse with the back of his hand just to remind him that he's there, and what's in store for later. It works because there's a piece of smooth, polished stone in him, shaped bulbous but with a narrow stalk for his hole to clench around, and a flared base to make it easier for Jorah to pluck out. A tap of Jorah's hand reminds him of what's in him, and the fact that printed neatly on its base is _Ser Jorah Mormont's fucking whore_.

During the day, Snow's with the queen while she goes about her business, ruling, settling the Seven Kingdoms to the fact there's a Targaryen back on the Iron Throne. They'll love her or they'll fear her, one of the other, and Jorah doesn't care much which it is just as long as it's one or the other, but the fact really is that the smallfolk couldn't give a fuck. So she parades around all day, threatening Westerosi lords and ladies or else making pretty promises, and then, at night, when it's time to retire, Jorah takes Snow with him. 

"You're lucky to be alive," Jorah tells him, once they're behind closed doors. Snow's been sullen all surly all evening and that's not part of the deal he made; as they left the table after dinner, Daenerys gave him a sharp look, so he knows he has to deal with that, and will. 

"You're lucky she hasn't killed you, either," Snow retorts, like the petulant Stark bastard that he is. Jorah doesn't exactly blame Ned Stark for his own saga of misfortunes - he did it to himself, no one forced his hand but fucking Lynesse - but he doesn't have fond memories of the man that raised Jon Snow. 

"That may be, but I have my white cloak and what have you got?" He sets his hands at his hips and raises his brows, like a challenge Snow doesn't accept. 

Snow screws his mouth up. Jorah says, "Strip." 

Snow does as he's told. He's still wearing back these days, even months on from leaving the Wall, like a good little Black Brother. He muttered something about Lord Commander Mormont once, about disgrace and dishonour, and Jorah slapped him across the face so damn hard he spat blood onto the flagstones, but now Snow strips. He's pale underneath, like he hasn't seen the sun in years and chances are he hasn't really, not like Jorah had across the Narrow Sea. He's pale and nothing much to look at, short, and Jorah's only ever felt an interest of that kind in exceptional men. Or maybe his jealousy's clouding his judgement because their queen took Snow into her bed, not him. 

"You know what to do," Jorah says, once Snow's clothes are on the floor, and he does because it starts the same each and every night: Snow goes to the table under the big leaded window and he bends down over it, propped up on his forearms. Jorah nudges his bare feet further apart with the outside edge of one leather boot then he finds the base of the thick stone plug inside Snow's arse and pulls it out in one swift tug. Sometimes Snow's knees threaten to give out. Tonight, though, he's relatively steady, and Jorah sets it down on its base on the tabletop. Later, he'll have Snow cover it back up with oil and put it back inside himself. Jorah likes to see him do it; it reminds him of exactly who's in charge. 

Once the plug's out, and Snow's still leaning there with his already oiled hole still on display, Jorah considers his next options. Snow's been petulant, so punishment's due and nothing timid will suffice. Sometimes all he does is make Snow kneel and sodomise himself with the hilt of his own dagger, the one he used to try to kill their queen. Sometimes he has him kneel on the bed, on his hands and knees, and each tool he puts inside his traitor's fucking greedy arse is bigger than the last, till he pulls the last one out and Snow's hole gapes, obscenely wide, like a mouth that wants for filling. Sometimes he sets Longclaw down on the stone floor and tells him he should slick the hilt up with his come or else it'll go into him dry. Snow jerks himself roughly every time and spills his seed over the direwolf at the old sword's pommel. He's let him keep it, even though it's a Mormont blade by rights, so he can think about where Jorah's put that wolf each time he holds it. 

Tonight, though, he tells him, "Kneel." So Snow kneels, obedient as a dog and not a wolf at all. Jorah takes off his white cloak, and takes off his gold armour, and set his own lesser but untainted blade aside. He throws his tunic onto a chair and pushes his trousers down to the tops of his boots. Snow glowers, but he says nothing at all. He knows all too well how that ends for him. 

When he's bare from the hem of his thin linen undershirt down to the tops of his boots, Jorah steps in closer. He's still soft, but that's easy enough to resolve; he strokes himself right in front of Snow's face, slaps his cheek with the side of his cock, pulls back his foreskin and rubs Snow's pouting lips with the moist tip. Snow scowls, and Jorah laughs, and he nudges Snow's lips apart with his fingers and his cock. Snow knows what to do: he sucks the head in. And he won't bite, Jorah knows that, because it's more than his miserable life's worth. 

Snow sucks him. He's not bad, and he says so, says, "I always wonder where you got the practice. Was it dear old Ned or did Jeor give you the sword because he likes the way you polished his?" And Snow doesn't respond, because his mouth's full, then it's fuller because Jorah twists his fingers in Snow's hair and thrusts in deep. He splutters. He gags. He claws at Jorah's boots. Then he calms himself and he swallows carefully around his length and Jorah says, "Good boy, Jon. I almost think you like it." 

He could finish like this and make Snow gag on his come, but that's not enough. He pulls back. He pats Snow's cheek with a condescending smile, rubs his face with his spit-slicked cock. Then he tells him, "Get on the bed. On your hands and knees." So Snow does as he's told, stands up, goes to the bed, and he kneels there at the bottom edge. That's what Jorah wants but he's not close enough so he pulls him by his thighs, drags him closer to the edge, abruptly, and Snow scrambles not to fall flat on his face. Then Jorah gets the oil, unstoppers it while he stands there at the foot of his bed, and drizzles it against Snow's hole. He's already slick, probably slick enough to fuck because Jorah makes him oil himself three times each day, but he likes the way that Snow always reacts. His hole clenches. His muscles twitch. His cock begins to stiffen, like he likes it. Later, Jorah will probably remind him of that fact. 

The oil drips off Snow's balls onto the sheets on Jorah's bed but he couldn't care less if it stains or not. HIs queen's told him to punish Snow and so he will, any and all oil stains be damned. She came to watch them once, back in the first few weeks of this; she sat in the chair by the door, the only time she's been inside his room, and watched him do what he does now, calmly and impassively. She watched him rub the tip of his cock between Snow's oiled cheeks. She watched him push the blunt tip against his rim. She watched him push inside him, watched him sink in deep, watched him fuck him just like that in long, hard thrusts. Her cheeks were flushed. He'd like to think she enjoyed it. He'd like to think that when she got back to her rooms, she put her fingers underneath her dress, between her thighs, and gasped out loud as she thought of him. 

He fucks Jon Snow. Sometimes he makes Snow do the work, fucking himself on the length of him, but tonight he puts his back into it. He fucks him hard and fast, gripping his hips where he usually bruises. And it doesn't take long: Jorah has plenty of stamina to spare, but that's not the point. He pounds him with his cock till he growls under his breath and spills in him. And he stands there after, still in him to the hilt, while he catches his breath again. He lets himself go soft, then he pulls out, and he pulls his trousers up again. Fuck, sometimes he wishes he'd never started this, like now as he can see his own come at Jon Snow's well-fucked hole. 

He sits himself down in the chair where Daenerys sat that night, his hands at the upholstered arms were her hands were. He wonders if he sees what she sees, but the chances are he doesn't. He thinks she might have loved Jon Snow, and Snow might have broken her heart in return. Jorah doesn't love him, and he doesn't hate him; he envies him and he pities him, and he'll do what he must to punish him because that's what their queen has asked. 

"Find something to fuck yourself with till you come," Jorah says, and Snow leaves the bed to choose something, tempered glass or varnished wood or polished stone, long or short or thick or thin. He picks up the one shaped like a dragon's cock in miniature, and when he bends down and puts it in, no more oil because Jorah's come will do, Jorah laughs out loud. He's not sure he can stop, just like he can't stop watching. Snow fucks himself and Jorah laughs. Snow uses the tip to nudge that place inside him, not quite a finger's depth inside. His knees go weak, and Jorah's still chuckling even when he comes. 

Snow puts the dragon cock down. He puts his big stone plug back in, with Jorah's name there on the base. Then he turns and looks at him, red-faced, hot-eyed. 

They both know who's doing the fucking here. It's not really Jorah. It's the dragon on the Iron Throne. 

He'd do anything for her. But he knows neither of them's escaped her wrath.


End file.
